Heartstrings
by follow9
Summary: He's seen her before and not like this: one manicured hand gripping the stem of a wine glass and the other supporting the weight of a pan as she slides it from the oven. No, he's sure he's seen her in some dream, some other lifetime, and it instantly draws him to her.
1. Chapter 1

He's seen her before and not like this: one manicured hand gripping the stem of a wine glass and the other supporting the weight of a pan as she slides it from the oven. No, he's sure he's seen her in some dream, some other lifetime, and it instantly draws him to her.

She smiles when she looks up, brilliant white against deep red, and greets him. There's no recognition in her eyes like she knows him too. He must be crazy.

"Nate's out back," she juts her head toward the patio and reminds him why he's here.

"You must be Nora."

She smiles wider and there's dimples now. "Usually, yes. And you are?"

He reaches a hand out, only polite but he wants to feel her skin and he will berate himself later for it. "Danse."

She clasps his hand and thankfully there's no electricity. Something to convince him to leave well enough alone.

"Not on a first name basis yet, I see."

"That's how people typically refer to me."

She nods and trades his hand for a cigarette. "Do you drink, Danse? Nate and the rest of them damn near bought out every store in town."

He does drink and he needs to now but he also needs to stay away from the kitchen.

"Help yourself to what's in the fridge."

He doesn't speak, just allows himself one more glance at her, back to him as she slices into a pie and puffs mindlessly from her cigarette, before he grabs a beer and steps through the back door to the sound of laughter.

It's a mercy that she never steps outside though he meticulously keeps track of everyone who walks through the door. An hour ticks by and he relaxes finally. She likely won't join them at all. He finds he can meet Nate's eyes without feeling guilty-and he shouldn't, after all. He'd done nothing improper, hadn't even let his eyes wander like he'd seen some of the other soldiers do. It was only the pulse of attraction that condemned him but he could fight it.

Nate clasps a hand on his shoulder drunkenly as he tells a story and Danse supports his weight. Every man has gone through twice as many beers as he has. He wouldn't usually restrain himself as much but she's still inside somewhere and he doesn't want to say anything he'll regret.

The night winds down with a toast to Nate and his wife and their new home, freshly built and already stylistically coordinated. He leans against Danse, his closest friend of the lot in attendance, and splutters his adoration for Nora: her intelligence, her wit, her kindness, her hips. It's all things Danse has heard before but now he has a face to the name and it feels as if he's trespassing.

He bids goodnight to Nate and the others and takes the long way to his car through the gate and around the house.

It's been weeks since Danse first stepped foot near their residence. It would be longer still if Nate hadn't relentlessly insisted he come for dinner. He's had the debate a million times in his head: if he's a good friend for staying away as long as he did or a bad friend for not staying away longer. Nate seems to be offended when he declines his generosity. Hospitality is big where Nate was raised and it's an affront to avoid it for long.

He rings the bell and Nate answers the door. The Cabernet Sauvignon is heavy in his hands, intended as a gift but it feels too intimate because it's what she was drinking the last time he was here and he shouldn't have remembered that.

On cue, Nora is suddenly there and not a bit less bewitching than she had been the last time. "Welcome back."

He makes eye contact but only for as long as it takes to acknowledge her with a greeting and then he's looking past her, into the house and examining the walls.

"New paint," Nate proudly holds up his hands, swaths of yellow staining patches of his skin.

"I picked out the color and Nate did all the hard work," Nora winks.

She turns away and heads toward the stove while Nate takes Danse down the hallway and shows him the rest of the home, brimming with pride in his investment. Similar shades of yellow coat the walls of the spare bedroom but it's otherwise bare. In contrast, their room is full: a queen size bed dominates the space near the window and a dresser in the corner is littered with pictures and mementos. He steps closer to examine the photos and finds candids of the couple along with holiday pictures where they squeeze alongside family and adopt fake grins. He frowns in distaste. He might be biased because it's nothing compared to the way she smiled at the housewarming party.

When they return to the kitchen, Nora's fixing their plates. Her face is concentrated. She pulls half of her bottom lip up between her teeth and her forehead creases slightly. It's only when her expression suddenly morphs into one of pain, his arm reaching out to her reflexively, that he catches himself and shifts away. She inhales sharply and shakes her hand to soothe the burn she suffered but otherwise continues her tasks.

The dining room table is small and Nate sits at one edge, Nora to his left and Danse to his right.

"Nora's a good cook. She's got all these recipes I've never heard of," Nate comments around his first bite.

She swirls the wine in her glass and half-smiles at him. "You're easy to impress. You eat so much, I'm not sure how you can tell what you even put into your mouth."

He laughs at that and Danse even chuckles, just a fraction more at ease. He's the only one responsible to the tension, of course. She's blissfully unaware of how she affects him and isn't nearly as reluctant in his presence as he is in hers. It makes it easier for him to eat and eventually, he even manages to finish his own glass of wine and pours another. It makes him feel light, normal, and he slouches a little in his chair.

His inhibition falls away and he and Nate spiritedly discuss work and politics, often one and the same. There's rumors of impending war and everyone is awaiting a bomb. It makes the civilians anxious but the soldiers he knows are arrogant and Nate is no exception.

"Chinese'll regret it if they ever even _think _about nuclear war."

"They won't," Danse insists. He's sure of it.

"If they do, at least we have the vault, huh, Nor?"

The dark haired woman has been watching them, laughing with them, but rarely speaking. She remains quiet but he demeanor shifts just slightly into a heavy stillness.

"Ah. That's what you're doing."

"I'm afraid I don't understand." Danse studies her, watches her take another drink and then quirk a knowing brow up while she stares at him from over her glass.

It's a mistake, how much he's had to drink, because now he's staring at the marks her lipstick leaves along the rim. It turns his face the same shade of red.

"I'm a lawyer. So just... get all of your jokes out of your system."

"If she can't talk about the vault, she's probably working a Vault-Tec case. Frustrating sometimes, isn't it?"

Nora playfully punches his arm and rolls her eyes.

"What's your specialty?" Danse asks, curious about her and now it's appropriate, polite even, to ask.

"Human rights, actually."

"Best damn lawyer in the whole neighborhood," Nate quips.

She lights a cigarette with a tremor in her fingers. "How sweet. I'm blushing."

Danse feels his own craving flare up and he pats at the pack in his pocket, pulling a cigarette free. He's about to ask for the lighter when her thumb slides against the sparkwheel and the flame reignites. She reaches over the table to the cigarette in his mouth and her hand is inches from his jaw. He recoils as soon as the end glows orange and her hand lingers in the air for a moment, surprised at his sudden withdrawal.

Nate starts to clear dishes and when Danse rises to assist him, he realizes she's staring. Her eyebrows are drawn and her lips are pushed together into a taut line. Guilt knots his stomach up while he brings their glasses to the sink and starts washing. Nate excuses himself to use the restroom and Danse remains in the kitchen, acutely aware that he's alone with her. It turns his stomach. She doesn't immediately come up to him. She makes him wait, hurt or confused or both at once, but finally she walks back to the sink and gently ushers him aside to take over washing the dishes. It's only her fingertips that make contact with his bicep but he flinches back all the same.

"I can do this. You're a guest."

"I don't mind helping."

The water is running but her hands aren't working. They're limp under its steady stream and she glowers at them. "Do you not like me?"

It takes him a moment to comprehend what she's asking and then another to decide what to say. It comes out wrong anyway. "I... I like you."

"I mean... did I do something? You're always avoiding my eyes and shrinking away from me and you're not like that around other people at all."

He shakes his head. It's all he can do. He can't explain, not really, but it gives him some small satisfaction to know she's been observing him, too.

"I guess it doesn't matter," she sighs, scrubbing at a plate. "It's just that all of Nate's other friends like me. I hate thinking there's someone who doesn't, especially when I can't figure out why."

There's very little distance between them and every scrub brings her elbow dangerously close to his stomach. Regardless, he stays rooted in place, the only sign of affection he has allowed her so far, because he doesn't want to pursue this but he can't stand for her to believe it's her fault.

In the dim kitchen lighting, she's captivatingly beautiful and he feels a jealous twinge in his chest. It's probably the wine, the reason he's taking too much liberty, examining her high cheekbones and the flush of her bronzed skin, devastated at his rejection. He'd seen her eyes radiant and good-humored but now they're troubled and it wounds him. He's torn between his respect for Nate and whatever it is she's cultivating in him.

"I don't know you well." A lie. Respectable, maybe, for a good reason, but he hates hearing it from his own mouth.

She looks up at him through dark lashes, judging his answer, and then returns to her chore without a hint of the verdict. Nate returns and offers another drink but alcohol has already done its damage for the night and Danse announces his departure instead. She says goodbye and by then her frustration has dissipated and something else indistinguishable has replaced it. It bothers him and as if she can sense his inquiry, she's quick to turn away.

He drives home unnerved and spends the night alone in quiet speculation.


	2. Chapter 2

The third time they meet, he nearly runs over her in a supermarket.

She gasps and stumbles backward and he reaches for her arm to keep her from falling, dropping all of his groceries in the process. Glass shatters and draws the attention of the nearby patrons and one employee, who rushes off to grab a mop and broom.

He blushes furiously. "I apologize. I wasn't paying attention."

"It's alright. I hated these shoes, you know," she bluffs. "I've been waiting for someone to throw their milk on them."

"My pleasure."

She looks up at him surprised. Her only reference for Danse's personality are the brief encounters they've shared and so far, he's only been short with her. She's smiling; she likes this new Danse. Her expression is warm but her eyes are narrowed ever so slightly. He perplexes her just as much as she does him.

He realizes he's still gripping her and immediately lets go but it's different this time. It's less like she's a flame he's been scorched by. The distance has been good for him. He can breathe around her.

She looks over the items on the floor. "Is this the bachelor's grocery list? Bread and meat and not a vegetable in sight."

The employee returns and they both step to the side of the mess and out of her way.

"I... never learned to cook."

She looks him over and sighs. "I'm not so sure you're a lost cause. Soup is simple enough. I can write down a recipe."

He rubs at his chin. He wants to decline-he'll ruin the soup somehow, he's sure-but she looks positively delighted to be able to help him.

"Come here."

She pulls him out of the aisle and down to the fresh foods. According to her, it's where he should do most of his shopping. She picks out an onion, some tomatoes, and something small and lumpy and white.

"What is that?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Wait, is... are you joking?"

He's not but he's grinning down at her. It's half embarrassment and half amusement. Her scolding is endearing and she informs him that it is in fact garlic that she's picked out and _how_ could he not know that? Nora fusses over him and his diet, not that he minds.

She speaks with her hands, miming how to mince the garlic and remove the outside of an onion. He doesn't fully understand but a woman, her friend, interrupts her to say hello.

She extends a friendly hand to Danse. "And it's nice to meet you finally."

Nora's cheeks redden. "Oh that's... Nate is at home. This is a friend."

Not Nate's friend. Her friend. He hasn't thought about it but he supposes it's true. It might make things easier, a friendship. He's bound to see her every now and again and he can't shun her every time or at least, he doesn't want to.

"This is Danse," she continues, placing a hand atop his larger one. It's fleeting-there one second and gone the next. Two months ago, it could have crippled him. Now it simply forces his heart faster against his ribs.

Progress.

The woman apologizes and nervously corrects herself. Another minute of small talk and then she's gone. Nora turns her attention back to him and it's just a bit intoxicating.

"Where were we?"

"Sautéeing."

She continues her directions and stands with him in line. They check out separately but all the while, she informs him of the changes she's made to the house and the bookshelf Nate is at home assembling.

"I suppose I'll see you in a few days," she says, grabbing her bags and walking by his side out to the parking lot.

"A few days?"

"Are you not going to the wedding?"

He might have forgotten had she not reminded him. "I plan to attend, yes."

"Good."

She asks him to hold her bags before they walk onto the paved street. He does and she pulls out a pair of sunglasses. Large, white frames cover nearly half of her face.

"I'll see you, Danse," she flashes him a smile as she takes her bags back. "Take care of yourself."

He's never been good at that, taking care of himself. She makes him want to.

She's already there when he arrives at the church. He's early, hates being late, but he knew she would be too because Nate is a groomsman.

His eyes find her before anyone else, even when she's across the room and engrossed in conversation with someone else. Chestnut waves cascade down her back and over one shoulder of a lavender dress. Her hand is on her arm, this unnamed woman, and he realizes she's a very touchy person.

He finds a seat in the back, examining the program shoved into his hands at the door. It's burgundy and gray and lace lines the edges.

He reads it over four times but when he checks his watch, there's still 10 minutes until the ceremony. When he looks up, she notices and makes her way to where he sits.

"No date?" she asks, taking the chair next to him.

"I'm not seeing anyone," he replies, unconsciously edging towards her. That damn gravitational pull.

She smiles mischievously. "Ah, well. I'll see if I can't find you someone to go home with tonight."

The idea isn't appealing in the slightest but he nods anyway.

"If this seat isn't taken, I think I'll stay. That alright?"

It surprises him. She seems so friendly with everyone and he's the last person he'd expect her to choose. "Of course."

"I like sitting in the back. I always do. If you don't, people see you and then you have to talk to them and it never stops," she sighs.

"I was under the impression you enjoy being social."

Her hands are trembling again and she reaches into her purse for a pack of cigarettes. "Sometimes."

A couple attempts to shuffle past them. They're older-maybe mid 50s-and he and Nora sit back in their chairs to make room for them to pass. In the process, she twists in her seat and her whole body now faces him.

"I'm almost positive you don't like socializing," she smirks, blowing smoke over her shoulder.

"Sometimes," he laughs.

"Yes, I suppose I shouldn't say such a thing seeing as how we've graduated to whole conversations now."

One hand smooths her dress and the other supports her head as she leans into it, lit cigarette between two fingers. She's looking at him with that same expression she wore that night at dinner. It's baffling and he's no closer to deciphering it.

He wants to ask her what she's thinking, goes so far as to open his mouth when soft music begins to play and she purses her lips. The moment is gone and she stubs out the rest of her cigarette on the bottom of her shoe.

A man who has just taken a seat beside her sees it. He offers to take the butt and toss it for her. She politely rejects and rises to do it herself. The nearest ashtray is at the entrance just feet away and the man watches the swing of her hips as she goes. Danse clenches his jaw, barely restraining himself. Anywhere but a wedding, he might've allowed himself to indulge his baser instincts, for Nate of course, but the chairs are filling up now and the ceremony is about to start.

Instead, he's sure to fix him with a hostile glare-for _Nate-_as he turns back around to face the arch. The man notices, clears his throat. He won't do it again.

Just to be sure, Danse drapes an arm around the back of Nora's chair so that when she sits, her back just grazes his forearm. She doesn't say anything, oblivious to all that's transpired in the short time she was away and she certainly doesn't read into the placement of his arm. She's one of those people, after all: touchy. It likely means nothing to her.

He doesn't let himself dwell on the fact that he's being possessive of her when she's not his to begin with.

He does it for Nate. That's all.

The ceremony lasts half an hour; too long, by Danse's standards. His friend looks happy though, can't stop grinning as he walks back down the aisle holding hands with the love of his life. Nate walks down shortly after, arm in arm with a bridesmaid, and blows a kiss to Nora.

When the wedding party has cleared out, guests begin to rise and file into the reception room. It's expansive. Flowers cover seemingly every surface and lively music drifts between the mingling bodies. Nora asks him to stay with her to avoid small talk with others so he does. They stand in line for drinks and she orders a cosmopolitan. He orders a Manhattan.

She's a lightweight, self-proclaimed, but he soon discovers for himself. One drink has her even more smiley than usual. Her second has her giggling at every other thing he says.

She's standing in front of him, swaying slightly, telling him stories about work save for the confidential details. She particularly dislikes a woman at her firm.

"She doesn't trust me," she says, raising one eyebrow and leaning forward. "Says I'm too nice."

"I disagree."

She sips from her straw. "What do you think, then?"

Ice clinks against the walls of his glass. It sounds far away, background noise to the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

_That you're lovely. That you make it hard to function and it's fucking impossible to get you out of my head._

"I think you're optimistic. Some people don't understand that."

She bites down on the straw and laughs. "So you like me now."

He runs a hand through his hair. "I've always liked you, Nora."

"Mmm. Right."

Someone makes an announcement over a speaker and the guests find their tables. He assumes that means pictures have been taken and Nate will be back soon. It makes him nervous. Even more so when he realizes they're seated at the same table.

Sure enough, the newlyweds return and the wedding party trails behind them. Nate claps Danse on the back and takes his place on the other side of Nora. The way he looks at her is appreciative and adoring and she melts under the heat of his gaze. Every eye in the room is on the happy couple as they have their first dance but Nate is whispering to Nora and Danse wishes he could ignore it. When he casts a quick glance their way, Nate's hand is on his wife's thigh, caressing her skin until her leg twitches under his touch. Heat rises to his face and he's unsure if it's because he's witnessed an intimate moment or because his own hands are empty.

Maybe he wouldn't object to company for the night.

She somehow convinces him to dance with her when Nate disappears again, off somewhere performing his duties as a groomsman. He's always felt he had two left feet but saying no to her kills him and she promises to lead.

They sway for a few beats. It's a slow and simple song. He's careful to keep his hands on her sides, not allowing them near her waist. That would be too intimate. Her hands lock around the back of his neck but they don't pull him close like they would if he were clean shaven, if his hair was a lighter shade of brown, if he had blue eyes. It makes him want to drink so when Nate returns and asks to cut in, he does until he feels the alcohol soothe the loneliness. It's not enough. Even the blonde Nora introduces him to cannot satisfy him. He knows that so he doesn't invite her back to his apartment. She seems disappointed. He gave her the wrong idea, mouth heated on her own and fingers tangled in the gold of her hair. But he's a decent man; he won't use her and that's what it would be if he allowed it to go any further.

He takes a cab home and passes out as soon as he collapses, face first, onto his bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Nights are turning cold in the Commonwealth. Every passing day grows more and more frigid and when the sun sets, it's colder still. It's how it's supposed to be, the natural way, from one season to the next. Predictable and comforting because it happens on its own and the destruction of winter is temporary. It's a mercy that Danse is not afforded.

He can count on one hand the number of times he's been near her but it doesn't matter; he's haunted, whether she's there or not. He wants to blame her but she's not at fault and he knows that truth as deeply as he feels it. He knows _her_. She comes to him in pulses, rapid bursts of nostalgia, as much from the past as the future. Impossible to place because she's immaterial, intangible as the September breeze that cools Boston just outside.

The chill seeps through the paper thin walls of his apartment and it's as good as alcohol, the way it stings. Maybe better, because it burns away his disorientation and leaves clarity in its stead.

Smoke is filling the room, spiraling from the ends of cigars that hover over a game of blackjack, unaware of the upheaval in Danse. His apartment is small and he anticipates the joke before it's spoken-no wonder he doesn't take women home when the cramped space is hardly big enough for two. Nate defends his friend, calls the other man a whore, and they laugh it off. It's banter, doesn't mean anything, but it stirs an ache inside of Danse and the angry pulse of a headache begins above his eyes.

"Tammy's got a friend," Marc starts.

Warren waves his cigar around and smoke pours over his lips as he speaks. "No, no, no, don't start with that shit."

"What? I'm being helpful."

"Jesus, Marc, lay off him."

"God knows he needs a woman to take care of him. Can't cook to save his life. I'll bet he's never even used that stove."

Danse gestures to Neal for another card and adds it to his hand. "That's not true. I boil water."

Nate snorts. "Nora says she tried to teach you."

Nervous energy bundles in his stomach. It's not her name but who says it. He wonders if it'll ever cease to turn him inside out, hearing Nate discuss his wife. It used to feel very ordinary but now those syllables make him shudder. He's waiting for a reckoning. It's bound to come; one day, Nate will see _something_ in Danse's eyes and he'll know. He'll lose his friend, his brother, and he doesn't think he can take that.

"Aw, hell. Woman's a saint." Marc eyes his cards with indecision, takes two cards from Neal, and then folds.

Warren nods. "Puts up with Nate well enough to be canonized."

"You two having kids anytime soon?" Neal presses.

Nate collects the cards and shuffles the deck for a new round. His forehead creases as his brows draw together and it's either pain or concentration on his face. "We are... trying."

The men holler their approval, shaking Nate's shoulders and commending him. Three of the five men are already fathers and a string of advice is rolling off of their tongues without hesitation. Danse isn't capable of much beyond a muttered "congratulations". The revelation rocks him for no reason, no damned good reason at all.

Of course they'll have children. They're married and it's what married people do. Childless or otherwise, she's always been out of his reach. He reaches for the latch of the window behind him, for cold air and stability.

"Trying is the best part anyway," Warren winks.

Nate raises his glass. "Hear, hear."

Everyone laughs, even Danse, because it looks strange if he doesn't.

It stays with him, images of children, blue-eyed and gleaming smiles, the better parts of the lovers that made them. The men socialize around him but he's too distracted to engage beyond the cards in his hand.

By the time his friends clear out and leave him to the solitude of his apartment, he's stewing in thoughts of families and he tells himself it's because he doesn't know his own. It's not because of Nora. Not because this is just another way to lose her.

And it certainly isn't because the image of her, belly round and face alight with the glow of motherhood, makes his cheeks burn.

He's shocked by the things he'll do to forget her.

He does have to try; It's not what he wants but there are _rules_, dammit, social mores about these kinds of things and he's been breaking them. The last few weeks have made him sick and it's as likely to be because he hasn't seen Nora as the guilt of it all. He has to know that she's happy, safe, taken care of, cosmic accidents bleeding in from another lifetime in which she'd belonged to him. He can't ignore her, that much is clear, and if he tries, all of those feelings, unnamed and formidable, will come back with a vengeance when he inevitably fails.

Or when he dreams about her.

It's only happened once; a miracle, all things considered. If he were less careful with his thoughts, he might not have been so lucky. It had been simple: a hand on his cheek, cold against the blush it roused.

"Danse," she'd said.

There was more to say because her voice piqued up at the end so he waited.

She inhaled and it caught in her throat while her eyes flickered between his. And then-

_Exhale_.

She wasn't Nora. Just his mind's best fabrication and it didn't know what he wanted her to say. They just stood and stared and if he has to see her make that face again, the one that she _always_ makes, like she's waiting for something, he'll lose his mind.

He shouldn't be thinking about her. Not ever and especially not as he's sitting in a restaurant waiting for someone else.

He plans to replace her. He has to.

He twists his wrist, watches the tick of the hands on his watch. The woman-Hannah-isn't late and he knew that but the movement releases some of the pent-up anxiety gnawing at him.

A waiter approaches the table and he orders an Old Fashioned before they rush back to the kitchen. The place is elegant, not flashy but certainly upscale. Just enough to make him squirm in his seat, question what the _hell _he's doing. He's out of his element but it's the sort of place Hannah must enjoy. There probably won't be a second date but at the very least, he hopes she'll distract him.

She arrives before his drink.

Petit and thin and blonde; different and not his type in the slightest. There's no confidence in her strut, no boldness in the set of her jaw and he _needs_ that. It takes him by surprise because he never has before.

"Hello," she smiles radiantly, a different kind of smile from the one that keeps him up at night. "I'm Hannah."

He smiles back, introduces himself and then stands to pull out her chair for her. The waiter returns to place a glass in front of him and Hannah orders her drink. She's polite but there's no spark and he wonders if she can feel it.

"Marc spoke highly of you," she says.

"Did he?"

She doesn't look at him for longer than a second at a time and her fingers pick at the corner of her menu. "Said you're a good one, honest and hard-working."

"I try to be."

"What's the catch?"

"Excuse me?"

She shrinks from the question, pulls back into the cushion of her chair. It's wrong. He needs her to challenge him and make him flounder but she doesn't have it in her. Different, too different.

"I didn't mean anything by it, it's just... I meet a lot of strange men, going on dates like this."

He raises his brows. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"I don't know. Do you live with your mother?"

"No."

"Do you have a weird taxidermy collection?"

He chuckles. "No."

"Well," she sighs. "That's good. Me either."

The mood lightens. She's scrutinizing him and it's because she's a little more comfortable. There's the hint of a grin at her lips, cheeks rising slightly, and it blossoms fully when he asks what she does. A nurse, she says, and tells him of the hospital she works at and stories of doctors and patients. She's amusing; he can stomach this for the next hour. Hannah is respectful and caring and attractive and he could settle, he thinks.

As soon as the word enters his mind, it fills him with nausea.

And then-anger. He's furious that every woman he meets should now, against his will, be held to that standard, that other woman, and he won't do her the respect of saying her name anymore even in his head. She's invaded it too much already, doesn't need his help to conquer him.

At the end of the night, he realizes she's read his disenchantment because she doesn't prolong the inevitable. She doesn't ask for his phone number, doesn't stare up at him expectantly and he's grateful for it. He trails behind her as she walks to her car and when she ducks down to slide into the seat, he hears her bid him goodnight and nothing more.

It's just as well. She can't help him and there's nothing-no one, he fears, but _her_-for the gaping chasm burning beneath his ribs.


	4. Chapter 4

Raindrops pelt the concrete and paint the pavement of Sanctuary Hills dark. At first, they fall sparsely but within a matter of minutes, there's a thick sheet pounding into the earth. It's hard to see through the downpour and Danse's windshield wipers struggle against the heavy torrent; it will be a while before he can drive back home. He's being conspired against, the universe working in tandem in some monumental plot to bring him to ruin.

In the passenger seat, Nate's book jostles with the movement of the car. He's not sure why Nate needs it, why he couldn't pick it up some other day, but he asked him to drop it off and Danse had agreed.

He puts the car into park in front of the house and sits for a moment. He hopes-_prays_-she isn't home but it's half-hearted. He hasn't smelled the floral frangrance that clings to her skin for a month.

He tucks the book under his jacket and runs up to the door. Water is seeping into his hair down to his scalp and chilling him but it's not why he shivers. He rings the bell and to his dismay and delight, she pulls the door open and when she smiles, he remembers why it's not a good idea for him to be there. She's happy to see him but there's a weariness about it this time.

"Danse?"

He won't-can't-acknowledge how his name on her tongue make his head spin. He pulls the book out and offers it to her, a few raindrops trailing from his fingers and onto the cover. "Nate requested this."

She reaches for it and peers around him, eyeing the storm. "Come inside, won't you?"

He doesn't move, not to enter or leave because he's torn. "I shouldn't."

"Don't be ridiculous, Danse. You can't drive in this."

She's right. He knew that, tried to prepare for it, but the suggestion is practical and warm air is seeping from the house, persuading him to step through the doorway. He doesn't go any further until she strides into the kitchen and offers him a drink. He asks where Nate is and she tells him he's out, not home and she doesn't know when he will be. She pours him a whiskey, their good whiskey she says. He takes the glass and waits to drink while she pours herself something sweeter.

She has to prop herself onto the kitchen counter to reach the wine opener. It's on the top shelf of a cabinet above the refrigerator and when she reaches it, she stays perched there and fills her own glass.

For the first time, she doesn't initiate conversation. Instead she stares down into her lap and neither drinks or moves for a long moment until the uneasiness is eating away at Danse.

"I don't mean to intrude." It's supposed to be an apology but he wants reassurance from her that she's not angry with him for something. He can't imagine what he could've done but she feels closed off, farther from him than usual.

She quirks the side of her mouth up and crosses her ankles. "I'm sorry. I'm just distracted. Of course you're not intruding."

"What's on your mind?"

The question spurs her to drink but he still can't. He's on edge because he's never seen her like this and everything in him wants to hold her.

"I'm sorry that I'm not my usual bubbly hostess self."

"Everything alright?"

She brings a hand to her forehead and closes her eyes. Her chest rises and falls as she calms herself and he's worried for her. It's why he steps closer, stands to her side, thigh inches from her knee. The temptation to place a comforting hand there is hard to beat back.

The phone rings. It's just beside her and she quickly answers it. She greets the caller, answers a few questions while twirling the cord around in her hand. When she hangs up, the atmosphere has grown heavier and she smiles unconvincingly at Danse.

"My mother," she explains. "My sister is currently very pregnant so she keeps me updated. Strange woman."

"Your mother or your sister?"

She laughs. "Both."

"Why is that?"

"They're a cynical bunch. Very serious. I mean, I know I'm the lawyer but I swear I'm not nearly as high-strung."

She suddenly looks pained. The phone call has only worsened her mood. She blinks a few times as though she might cry but as soon as she finishes off her wine, it seems to have passed.

"You don't get along," he notes.

She scrunches up her nose. "No."

One finger idly traces circles in the countertop, so very close to his own hand that it burns him.

"I'm the oldest," she whispers. "I've got three siblings and they've all had children."

_We are trying._

Words Nate had said, but that wasn't _how_ Nate said them and suddenly that detail seems incredibly important. _We are... trying. _Trying and failing and in the meantime, Nora has to congratulate younger women for doing what she can't.

"Been married 4 years and the questions keep coming. 'Where are the babies?' and I haven't got an answer," she croaks. "Maybe it's not meant to be."

_Fate_. The word is familiar, Danse thinks he knows something about it. He doesn't believe in much in the way of the supernatural but _fate..._it's why he's here at all, in Nora's kitchen taking whatever scraps of herself she'll offer without his ring on her finger. He believes that much. And if there's a system, tallies from misdeeds and heroics in past lives, he's sure he'd been a shitty person because it's hell to watch her grieve without brushing his skin over hers.

His mind races and hunts for some appropriate reaction, something less intimate. "I had no idea."

She tucks her hair behind her ear and gives him that sad smile. "I like that. No frills or floundering. No one ever knows what to say. Not that I talk about it much but if I do, it's 'you'll have a baby one day' or 'there's always adoption'. Sometimes they apologize but there's too much pity in it. Drives me mad."

"I'm sure they mean well. They want to help."

"They don't."

Her eyes sparkle with something akin to approval. _You_ _do_.

"Nora, you're... not easy to figure out."

She chuckles. "Please."

"I mean it," he insists. "You're a difficult read."

They had started off talking about other people but now, he realizes, he's talking about himself. It's all he knows and it keeps him up at night, analyzing her likes he isn't a grown man. She's reduced him to a pining teenager, inexperienced and confused.

She's caught on, giving him _that_ _look_ again. "What are we talking about, Danse?"

"I simply... I don't think you know how you affect people."

She looks away from him out of the window, watches the rain still falling. Her teeth work at her bottom lip for a moment and then watery eyes are looking up at him. "Everybody thinks I'm so naive."

It's devastating, the realization that he's hurt her. He'd only meant to tell her in the only way he can, cryptic and ambiguous, that she means something to him.

"I'm not," she sniffs. "I'm not stupid, Danse. I know there's something here, between us."

He swallows. His right hand is shaking the glass of untouched whiskey and his skin feels clammy. He never thought he'd hear her say that, thought he was the only one. It's as electrifying as it is severe because it changes nothing.

She sees him struggling, not sure how to respond and gives him a half-smile, false and miserable. "I love how much you love Nate. Always trying to avoid me."

He shakes his head. "Why do you fight me then?"

She sighs. "I need you in my life some way."

He understands because he feels sick, only half of himself, when he's away from her. There's no reason for it. He hardly knows her enough to miss her but she's got an inexplicable hold on the best pieces of himself and he wants to give her everything, anything she would ask for.

"I'm not trying to make this difficult, Danse, but I know that I do."

He doesn't answer. His stomach is in knots, tangling at the words she says and the way they sound on her lips. Like she's apologizing, like she's agonized over this as much as he has.

She hops down and walks toward a window to wrench it open. Raindrops slant through it but the storm is relenting, calmed to a dull roar and he's sure he could leave now.

He stays.

If only to watch her, memorize her and be near her. When he leaves, he can't guarantee when he'll be able to return because it's Nate that's his friend, not her. He needs a pretense to be with her and he'll run out sooner or later.

"Would you say something?" she asks.

He stares at her back and he can see the way her muscles are tensed, rigid as she waits for him to address what plagues them both. There are no words that he can put to it that are adequate.

"What is there to be said?"

"Stop that." She doesn't relax even a fraction but she faces him and he can see how he's wounded her.

"What?"

She stays on the other side of the room, watching him until she's unable to resist reaching for a cigarette. Pure comfort, the way it steadies her, and the smoke makes him crave nicotine.

She shakes her head, opens her mouth but the words don't come. Then: "You should go."

He hasn't got a clue what he wants. Rejection seemed best, sinks him deeper into denial even in the face of her boldness, but it's pushing her away and with her goes his sanity. An arm reaches for her and she backs away.

"Nora, please." He begs like he's been cut off and he has. She's nearly as bad as the cigarettes, the way he needs her, the way her withdrawal makes his body ache.

Her eyes don't waver. They stay on his own, make him sorry that he's multiplied the distance between them. He knows she won't leave Nate, won't hurt him and he'd never ask her to but he'd fought relentlessly to keep her at arms length because doesn't trust himself. She makes him entirely weak. But this-she's stronger than he is if she can stand being so far away from him or else, she doesn't feel a _fraction_ of what he does.

He tries again, says her name and this time it makes her bottom lip quiver. The dam she's constructed is impressive and it will hold by sheer force of will until he's left her.

"I'll let Nate know you brought his book home. Thank you."

His boots squeak on the tile and he feels the way her eyes follow him out the front door. The rain is nothing more than a drizzle now but he's still soaked through to his skin from before. Water pools in the crevices of the driver's seat of his car and snakes down the leather of the steering wheel where his hands grip it firmly, making up for the way he let her slip through his fingers mere seconds ago.

One last look at the house and he finds a dejected Nora, just barely backlit enough to be visible through the window, on the couch with her head in her hands.

It isn't until that moment that he believes that she truly suffers the way he does.


	5. Chapter 5

He's dressed to the nines in his navy suit and tie. With all of the bodies around him, he forgets for a moment that he's an orphan. He's got family of the unconventional sort, friends that have become brothers and shared their lives and their holidays with him. It's why he sits in the Abram's dining room that Thursday surrounded by food and laughter and music that shrinks and grows as the children tinker with the volume dials.

She's there, as she always is. She has as much a right to that space as Nate's wife as he does. Deep in conversation with the other wives, she doesn't so much as glance at him when he enters. But that, he knows, is not for lack of noticing. He's used to bright smiles and coral cheeks but what he finds-what he's earned-is a cold shoulder. The only hint that she knows he's there, that reassures him he is in fact visible, is the arch of her back away from him when he steps behind her to grab a beer. It's penance. He's rejected her offer, platonic as it was, and she's giving him exactly what he'd asked for. It's bitter on his tongue; he'd chosen wrong.

He can't afford to do a thing about it.

Neal's wife, Gracie, ushers everyone to a table set with decorative plates and glistening silver cutlery before Nora breaks away from her conversation with Alice and Marjorie and he feels the sting of missed opportunity. He means to apologize. He's not prone to the dramatic but in a room with less people, he would all but beg for the misery he'd grown used to, tell her he was selfish and sorry.

But she sits by Nate and Danse can say none of that over his friend. Over her husband.

Nate, who nudges him with an elbow and winks, because he's not the only one to have come alone and he's sure it's deliberate.

The woman is the furthest thing from his mind until she chooses a seat. Neal directs her next to Danse and she sits close enough that her skirt brushes against him, close enough that he knows that she's the source of the scent of vanilla in the room.

It's been planned, by one or all of his friends, and he holds back the groan of exasperation.

She's pretty in a severe way. Sharp cheekbones and angular features that are intimidating, almost off-putting. A woman that, in any other situation, he would write off completely but she's come here a participant in the game of matchmaking his friends play and he's too polite to ignore her now. Her makeup is soft except around the eyes, where a deep purple pulls the green from her irises. It's the first thing he notices when he looks at her straight on and it's not unappealing. The brief moment that their eyes meet flusters him and Danse is quick to avert his embarrassed gaze only to land on Nora, perhaps out the habit he's developed of keeping tabs on her.

She's shifty, uncomfortable. Between the subtle tightening of her mouth and the restless way her fingers twitch, he's suddenly interested in her reactions to this situation. Some part of him wonders if she knows that the pit in her stomach is one he endures daily, that flares up when he watches Nate's hands trace skin that he knows and Danse does not.

Gracie nudges Neal and he calls the kids into the room for prayer. Every hand reaches for the one next to it and the stranger's hand is soft in his. Small and feminine. Like Nora's but the color is off. He shouldn't be imagining that it's her beside him but thoughts are all he has now that she's exiled him.

Eyes close and heads bow but not his. He watches Nora, the way her face wrinkles in concentration and then the way the lines smooth out because her eyes open and she looks back at him, frowning and confused.

"Amen."

A muffled chorus of _amen_and then there are bowls being passed and food being shoveled onto plates and the sound of metal scraping against ceramic breaks them away.

"So, Mrs. Vault-Tec," Warren prods.

Nora smiles apologetically, mimes locking her lips and tossing the imaginary key behind her.

"Aw, come on. It's all over the news," Marc pleads. "New arrests every day and barely any details. Something's up."

"Sorry, boys. You'll find out like everyone else."

They groan but she slides ham onto her plate and keeps her secrets, not tempted in the slightest to indulge them. Her work is important to her. He knows little but he knows this.

"Camila, what do you do?" Marjorie asks and he realizes she's talking to the woman beside him.

She ducks her head and pokes at the beans on her plate. "I'm a receptionist."

The current of embarrassment is one he detects even if the others don't. She's not proud to say it now, whether or not she would be otherwise, because she's no lawyer.

"For whom?"

"A little dentistry in Cambridge."

"How nice," Alice affirms. "I bet you get the cutest children in there."

Camila smiles. "We do. Oh goodness, they're adorable."

Danse looks to Nora, vigilant now that he knows. Sure enough, she studies her lap. He feels the pricking of his own heart at the sight, feels it swell when Nate squeezes her hand.

He clears his throat and changes the subject. "Where is it you went to school, Camila?"

She beams and gushes about her alma mater and Danse nods like he's listening but he's straining to gauge Nora's reaction in his peripheral. She raises her head but her expression is blurry from this angle. Too blurry to tell if the gesture has done anything to win her over or if she sees the repentance in his face.

He talks to Camila-Mila, she says, call her Mila-because he's inadvertently started a conversation but he knows it's what everyone wants from him. Their voices are lost in the cacophony of others and she leans in, asks him about favorite books and what he does and it isn't terrible the way he'd thought it might be. Not half as much, because Nora, he notices with morbid enjoyment, casts regular glances in their direction. The normal roles are reversed and for once, he's not the one scrambling.

Mila is the first to leave, cites the family she still needs to see, and when she's gone, it's only he and Nora left seated at the end of the table. The others busy themselves with dessert and bottles of wine and cigarettes that Gracie insists not be smoked near her good tablecloth or else.

Her hands fiddle with a decorative napkin and she's determined to keep her eyes there and nowhere else. She may not want to speak to him but if she truly doesn't want his company, there are a million excuses for her to leave the table.

"She's cute," Nora mumbles. "Camila."

There's a sharpness in her tone and Camila's name breaks off in her mouth like she almost didn't say it all, like it's taboo and speaking it is more acknowledgement than she cares for.

"Yes," he agrees and leaves it there. But _cute_. Cute isn't satisfying. What he wants, what his chest aches for, is beauty and even when it sits just in front of him, it's unattainable. Nora is red lips and long legs and kindness and hard work and cute simply cannot compare. But Mila, he supposes, is cute and that's not nothing.

"She could take care of you..."

She trails off like there's more she wants to say but she abandons the words for wine and smiles uneasily at him. It's the right thing, to wish each other well in their own pursuits, and he wonders if he looks the same when she hopes for pregnancy.

"I'd be a fool to turn away free dental care."

She nearly spits out her wine, covers her mouth and swallows before she laughs and the sound turns him to putty in her hands. Gracie shoots Nora a warning look and she gestures to the spotless area in front of her to prove her innocence.

"Well," she tilts her head, amused. "Perfect match."

They say nothing of their last interaction. He knows better than to think it's because she finds it inconsequential but maybe she's forgiven him. Maybe jealousy is enough to remind her that it's too hard to fully release him the way she should, the way he doesn't want her to. She asks him to light her and he nods and follows her to the back porch. This arrangement isn't impossible so long as he keeps himself in check.

But it's hard to extinguish the what ifs. He allows himself to stand closer than strictly necessary when he touches the flame to her cigarette and he wonders what it would've been like to have met her first. Before Nate, before vows and houses. The almosts are vivid: sweet nothings and picture frames, bodies curled together in a shared bed, lipstick smears across his jaw. He needs his own cigarette to curb the desire in his gut but when he pats down his pockets, he realizes he left his pack in his car. He turns to retrieve it but she grabs his hand and pulls him back and they're damn lucky no one is around to notice. Her palm is warm against his and she rubs her thumb across his knuckles before she pulls away. Her mouth hangs open like she's as surprised as he is and then she passes him her own half-smoked cigarette, tinged red where her lips had been.

No, he thinks. He's gone back and forth enough times to make himself dizzy but he cannot be friends with this woman and his conscience nags him that it's too dangerous to try. But he accepts her offer reluctantly because he's burning to know what she tastes like. The spasms of his hands don't fade even when his addiction is sated, quavering twice as hard as he disposes of the filter.

He has unintentionally pushed the boundary line a little closer to catastrophe but that thought is overshadowed by vibrant scarlet.

Red is all that matters. Red like lips and passion and blood.


	6. Chapter 6

The car rolls, losing speed as it goes and Nora curses under her breath as she steers it to the shoulder of the road.

She shoves the door open and steps out onto gravel, the bite of December at her exposed calves, examining the front left tire. Air is still streaming in a steady hiss from the edges of the place where a nail has punctured the rubber. It's the same tire that has been replaced not even a month before and she sighs. Just her luck.

Looking around, she notes the closest business is a ramshackle gas station down the road and it will have to do. She kicks off her heels and holds them in one hand as she runs towards it, grateful that she seems to be the only one on the road at such an hour.

A woman at one of the two pump stations gives her an odd look and Nora's instantly self-conscious. No doubt this is no time to be concerned with her looks but she knows she hasn't looked so messy in public since grade school. She smooths her hair and raises her chin with all the confidence she doesn't feel. Appearances are everything, whether she likes it or not.

The door swings open, lighter than she thought, and the vigorous peal of the bell on the door makes her jump. The man at the counter can't be more than twenty and he looks up from his magazine, mildly annoyed.

"Sorry to trouble you. Do you have a phone?" she asks.

He reaches behind him to the rotary and plops it onto the counter before her, turning back to his issue of Astoundingly Awesome Tales without a word. He can't even be bothered to object when she sets her heels onto the counter.

She picks up the receiver and dials Nate, a number she knows by heart. She prays he's awake but somewhere between the fourth and seventh ring, she's almost sure he won't. She hangs up and tries again, crosses her fingers behind her back but no answer. Just her luck.

She retrieves her address book from her purse. Flipping through the pages, a wave of panic rushes through her. Most of her friends have children and are likely asleep and even fewer she trusts to know how to change a tire. She shouldn't call him, wonders if he'd even drive the half hour out of his way to assist her. Fingers brush over his name as she debates the shoulds and should-nots. She has all of Nate's friends' information for times like these and the wisest course of action is to call Warren. He's a mechanic; it's the logical choice. But the prospect of seeing Danse again is too good to pass up and before she's consciously decided to, her fingers are turning the dial.

She's nervous like a fourteen-year-old. Like she's at a sleepover and Mary Louise is daring her to call Daniel Jacobson and hang up all over again. She presses her fingers to her neck and feels the blush, out of her control and burning.

"Hello?"

He sounds tired and all at once, she regrets disturbing him but the sound of his voice could calm any storm and it calms hers. "Danse?"

"...Nora?"

She swallows and closes her eyes. "Are you busy? Did I wake you?"

"I'm... I'm awake. Is everything alright?"

Yes. Now, everything is alright. Perfectly marvelous. "I'm stranded with a flat. Would you mind changing it?"

There's the sound of shifting on the other end, like bed sheets sliding against each other. "Where?"

She doesn't know where she is. She presses the phone into the skin of her neck and asks the attendant who mumbles a mile marker that she relays to Danse.

"I'll be there. Wait inside."

She nods, knowing full well he can't see her but her voice isn't working, and hangs up, sliding the phone back toward the young man.

He barely glances up when she thanks him and shoes in hand, she steps just outside to save them both the awkwardness of waiting with a stranger. She pulls out a cigarette and lights it for no better reason than she's anxious and there's nothing else to do. She's smoked three by the time Danse pulls up and steps out of his car. There's a smile tugging at her lips at the sight of him because he looks exhausted and his hair is all sorts of disheveled. There's something incredibly sweet about the fact that he's here, in the middle of nowhere, when even Nate had managed to sleep through her calls.

He scrutinizes her like she's used to and it's heart-breakingly clear how much he wants to know her, what every twitch of her muscles means. He doesn't ask. "Morning."

She tries to close her mouth to take one last drag but her smile is widening. "Morning."

As if he's only just become aware her eyes raking over him, he drags his hands through his hair but Nora doesn't mind it unkempt. It makes her feel better about the way rogue strands of her own hair fall into her eyes.

She points him in the direction of her car and when she starts for the passenger seat, he holds the car door open for her. He can't know the way she adores those little gestures. They're still novel and she's still getting used to this new way he looks at her. No longer a drink to an alcoholic but he's still careful how close he stands and she's grateful. She isn't so stupid as to do away with the necessary boundaries. He knows how wide a berth they need from each other and she does her best to keep it.

He drives down the road and flips around to park just behind her car. It's leaning forward, succumbed to its circumstances, and it's obvious which tire needs changing.

His forearm rests across the steering wheel and it's too dark to see his face but she can tell he's thinking by the way his fingers twitch against the dash. "What happened?"

"Nail," she says quietly. She's the first out of the car to pop the trunk and he's right behind her, arms crossed as he examines the tools Nate had bought for roadside emergencies. "Should have everything you need."

He nods and pulls out the jack and the spare tire and she feels useless standing there shivering. She's got some idea of what needs to be done but not enough to assist in any meaningful way.

She offers anyway. "Can I help?"

"You can put the parking break on."

She slides into the driver's side and pulls the parking break back. It's a little contribution but if he wants her to feel helpful, it's working.

"You never learned how to change a tire?" he asks when she reappears at his side.

"Tragic, I know." She kicks at a pebble with the side of her heel. It skitters across the road, illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming car. If she were alone, she would be terrified. It's too late for any good to come of a woman by herself but as it is, she feels safe. Danse is too large a man for her to be prey. At his side, she's secure and she knows that he's armed.

He pops the hubcap off and lays it on the ground. "It's a valuable skill."

"I always seem to talk someone else into doing it for me."

"That what law school teaches you?" He smirks over his shoulder at her. "A degree in stratagem and artifice?"

"Big words for someone without a law degree," she jests.

"I'm sure you'll make good use of that diploma should the bombs drop."

"I'll sue the trousers off the Chinese. That'll teach them."

He chuckles but he's still too focused on the task at hand to see what it does to her. What _he_ does to her. Even if her body is cold, she feels feverish now. It's second nature to reach for his shoulder but she stops herself. It doesn't matter how comfortable she is with touching him because he's still guarded around her and it's not right to push him.

Boundaries. Distance. Restraint.

He needs these things even if he doesn't say it but to his credit, he's learned to relax a remarkable amount. He lets her take care of him in the ways that she can from her place on the other side of the dividing line he's drawn. And it's a good thing, she reminds herself. It's just not what she's used to. She's better at throwing herself into what she does than stepping back from it so she doesn't know how to contend with the way he mangles her breath and batters her heart.

He's not trying to hurt her. This situation would be easier if she wasn't in a fragile emotional state. Maybe she would need him less, let him go even. But she has a heart too full, overflowing as she waits to make someone she can give herself to and there's a surfeit of affection in the meantime.

His voice draws her back to the present and grounds her. "Where were you coming from?"

"My office."

"This late?"

"No rest for the wicked," she smiles. "And none for me either, for that matter."

It's draining work, poring over countless documents testifying to abuse and maltreatment. Not something she can do forever but while she's young, zealous and fierce and full of energy, she will empty herself for a good cause. While her life is a countdown to motherhood, she needs the distraction.

Distractions. Danse is a distraction, too.

He's loosening bolts when he catches the violent shiver that wracks her. He drops the wrench and removes his jacket. He looks like he might put it around her shoulders but he thinks better of it and hands it to her. With a mumbled thank you, she slips her arms into the sleeves and it's still laced with his warmth and trace amounts of Danse's scent lingers.

He trades the old tire for the new one and starts to fasten it in place. The way he works is methodical and efficient. He's done this many times before and he makes it look so easy that she's embarrassed not to have been able to do it herself.

And just like that, he's lowering her car to the ground, done too soon. She doesn't want him to leave, isn't ready to wonder when she'll see him again and only hear about him through others.

She's grasping for straws when she spies dark marks at the collar of his shirt. Her eyes are drawn to them and without thinking, her fingers trace them. He stiffens at her touch and she wonders if she's pushing him too far or if the slight pressure hurts.

"What happened?"

She smiles to put him at ease. It's nothing scandalous but she feels _so_ _warm_ when she's this close to him. She can't help that he pulls her in. He's fire under her fingertips like she's never felt and she needs something to keep her for all the times he's gone.

The muscle under her hand is still taut and Danse opens his mouth to explain. His jaw twitches and then clenches shut and his wide eyes are begging her not to press him.

"Oh..." Her cheeks grow red like she's just been slapped and she may as well have been. She examines the bruises again and no, they're not bruises at all. Her thumb runs over them slowly, back and forth like they might rub off. If she squints, they're only pen marks stubbornly staining his skin. But the placement is all too conspicuous and she can't convince herself anymore, knows she's lost the fight when tears prick at her eyes.

She nods. "It's... uh, you can... uh..." Her eyes flick away and she clears her throat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry."

He slides his hand up to her wrist. She thinks he means to be comforting but he pulls their hands down and away and they hang between them. She looks down at them sadly and the pressure in her chest is more than what it should be. She's known him all of six months. Her mother would call her ridiculous.

Nate loves her. He's beautiful and kind and attentive and _enough_. She lacks nothing; that's not the point. That's not what this is.

This is unfiltered attraction, raw and powerful and it expands exponentially every time he so much as looks her way. It won't fade, no matter how long they stay apart, no matter how much he pushes her away, no matter how _good_ Nate is and she thinks she believes in soul mates now.

She wants to brush it off. It would be easier to be that girl but she knows how hard it will be to sleep tonight if she doesn't get an answer.

She waits and then she can't so she asks. "Who? When?"

He frowns and gathers the tools before him because he likes to keep his hands as busy as his mind. It isn't a good sign. "I was... with Camila when you called."

It's irrational that those words should feel so much like being raked over coals. Danse is not the only one fucking someone else but it feels _different_. She'd been married long before he'd walked into her home and left his shadow there. This, now, is Danse choosing another when he already knows how much she needs him.

Feelings rarely abide by the rules of fairness. No matter how many nights Nate drives her into the floor, the counter, the bed, she will always ache to hear that Danse has done the same to another.

She pictures it because her mind is cruel and the pain becomes focused, acute. Pinpricks across her skin that burrow deep. She pictures it because she doesn't want to and thinking about what you tell yourself not to is inevitable. And when she hides herself in her car and pretends that driving home is suddenly a priority, she can give Danse no more than the barest smile with lips that are rigid with preoccupation.

He taps on her window and she rolls it down even as she imagines driving away. She's mortified like she's the butt of a joke because she can never have any part of the man leaning into her car. It's irrelevant how many times he says her name and asks what she's thinking, asks her to please talk to him, Nora, please. If she could disappear from the moment, from the face of the planet, she would because she's a damned fool.

"I came, didn't I?" he says softly. "I'm sorry."

"Silly to be sorry, Danse," she says through the thickness of tears. "You're an adult and... and like I was saying, you can do whatever you want."

But it's not true. He can't do whatever he wants and neither can she. She doesn't realize what she's said until the words are already out and it's too late to take them back. They will both go home to lovers that are perfectly adequate because there's no second option.

She thanks him and buckles her seatbelt just to show him she's committed to accepting the way things are and not the way she wants them to be. He doesn't have to dismiss Camila at her whim. If the loneliness is too much to bear, then she'll never wish him alone.

But Nora is still selfish. Still a damned fool. And it still hurts like hell to send Danse home knowing someone is waiting on him.


	7. Chapter 7

He waits for her.

All night, he waits like it's his job and damn if he isn't good at it by now. He watches the door swing open and closed and every time, it's someone else. Her husband is here so she should be here. The logic is airtight but she's nowhere to be found. He doesn't like parties without Nate, never has, but he realizes alarmingly he's grown more dependent on Nora to put his mind at rest.

Too dependent. It's an oversight on his part that he can't allow.

But he waits an hour, fidgets and shifts and puts it off as long as he can. And finally, he caves.

There's a lull in the conversation and he turns to Nate. "Will Nora be coming?"

It sounds too clunky. He should've said it differently. That way sounds too rehearsed, like he's practiced it a thousand times and even if he has, he should sound more like he's asking about something as unimportant to him as the weather.

"Nah, she doesn't celebrate Christmas," he says, popping a bottle cap onto the floor.

Marc nods. "Yeah. She's Jewish, right?"

"Mhmm."

"What's that, Hanukkah?"

"That's the one." Nate grins and punches his arm. "You know something about Judaism. Good for you, Marc."

"Oh, I'm culturally sensitive," Marc lays a hand over his heart. "That's the one with all the candles and shit."

"It's called a _menorah_, you half-wit."

Danse can hear them talk but the words stop making sense. Red-hot shame is burning down his throat because Marc shouldn't know more about her than him and he shouldn't care if he does.

Worse, he is slapped with the reminder that, of all of them, it's Nate that knows her best.

Sickness and health, for richer or poorer. It's easier to pretend he has any real connection to her when Nate isn't talking about her, revealing the intimate knowledge he has that Danse isn't privy to and her belief system is only the tip of that iceberg. He will hate himself it he steps any further between Nate and his wife, the woman he spends more and more time thinking about with increasing affection.

Falling in love, he thinks.

Once he says those words to himself, he's sure.

He's halfway in love with another man's wife. A glaring oversight, an unforgivable sin.

Danse can't think with words like that in his head. He feels perspiration gathering across his forehead and breaking out on his chest and suddenly his shirt is oppressive and stifling. He excuses himself and escapes to the back porch and he will throw himself into the snow if he must to clear out his mind.

Even there, memories lie in wait. Cigarettes and lipstick marks won't leave him alone. It's the same porch, the same view from where he stands on the concrete, and now, the same feelings all over again. He drops into a chair and cradles his head in his hands, the last refuge of a tormented man.

From his position curled in on himself, he hears the creak of the door. He looks up to Nate and the man takes the chair beside him as he bites down on a cigarette, fishing for his lighter.

"You alright?"

His instinct is honesty. It's knee jerk and he has to clench his teeth to staunch it.

Instead, he says, "I suppose I'm... overwhelmed."

Nate leans into the cushions, a thin layer of ice crumbling away against his back. "What's going on?"

The truth sits on his tongue. Part of Danse believes that confession can still save him. At the very least, it can act as a safeguard. Admit his sins, cleanse his soul. He's fought every thought and emotion she evokes and maybe he isn't the particular brand of contemptible he's come to believe.

For all of the merits of that idea, when he looks at Nate, fully intent on coming clean, he can't say those words, can't hurt him that way. He's damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. It's a betrayal either way but Danse isn't plotting. He'd sooner die than infringe on Nate's marriage.

He smiles, dimples indenting his cheeks. "Does this have anything to do with Camila?"

Danse flushes and feels the depth of his mistake. There are so _few_ outlets for his longings but he's embarrassed of his moment of weakness. If he'd been less drunk, if he hadn't been struggling as much as he had not to think about Nora, then he wouldn't have called her, wouldn't have kissed her, wouldn't have slept with her at all.

He's left muddled, at a loss for words. Vague truth will have to suffice. "I'm not decided as to what to do about Camila."

"Been a while since I've seen you with anyone. I was surprised you called her."

No one is as surprised as Danse. But there's no one to blame but himself. Late night whiskey has never done him any favors. His fingers toy with the box of cigarettes in his pocket before he finally pulls one out.

"You like her?"

He buys time with a mouthful of smoke. Toxic air stews in his lungs and disgusted, he pushes it out forcefully. "She's attractive."

"Hmmm." Nate props his feet up on the dusty table. "That's it?"

He shakes his head and his breath comes out like fog in the bitter cold of the night. "I enjoy her company but I don't intend to string her along."

"I thought she was a good match for you myself."

Chirping can be heard from insects in the bushes, deafening while he decides what to make of that. It's honest, if not mildly dicomfiting. Nate isn't one for empty words and Danse holds them with a weight he gives to no other's but one as he considers them.

He's tired of his vices. He stamps out his cigarette, resolved in that moment never to smoke another one of the damn things again. They nauseate him or else he's nauseated by the turn in the conversation but it doesn't matter. He mumbles something about the timing being wrong. It's a pathetic excuse but Nate drops it dutifully.

They talk about other things. The new bar a block from Danse's apartment, engaged and pregnant friends, recent developments US-Chinese relations. In the monotony of such idle discussion, he falls back into how they used to be. He's missed him this way. Nate, his friend, his drinking buddy, the only one to ask him what it had been like in foster care and the only one he'd answer. Nate, who'd enlisted a selfish and immature man he'd wanted nothing to do with but who had become someone he deeply admired. Really, it's because of Nate that he's friends with anyone else at all. It isn't like him to go out of his way to meet people but Nate is the charismatic glue of the group.

And, whether he's grateful or not, it's only through Nate that he has any interaction with Nora.

Nora, who can't hold her alcohol if her life depended on it, who's the oldest of four, who struggles quietly and gracefully in everything, slow to admit when she needs help and the first to offer it. Who he's learned today is Jewish. A woman of such a high caliber and so uniquely compelling that he's flailing to replace her.

When they rise to go back inside, Danse stops to stare up at the cloudless night. He could scream if he thought it would do anything at all. He has questions, pressing and incessant, and a discouraging lack of answers.

What's the point of these parties if Nora doesn't come? He's heartsick, so tired of pining for her but there isn't enough alcohol in the world to drown her. He's learned the hard way that even with a warm body under him, she's all too resilient. He'd done his level best not think of her in that moment, not to paint Camila's hair darker and imagine it was her nails at his scalp. It isn't fair to her and he's repulsed that he'd bit off half of Nora's name before he caught himself.

Detestable. And he decides that he's in too deep for anyone to know. He'll take his shortcomings to his grave because they're too shameful to disclose.

He walks back into the house to an eerie silence. Everyone stands in morbid fascination as black and white images of a late night press conference flit across the TV screen.

He has to squint to be sure he isn't hallucinating a prim and formal Nora, face grim as she speaks.

_"...approximately 6:40 on Friday, December 21, 2075, police arrested five Vault-Tec executives from their homes in Boston and the surrounding areas. Over the past month, there have been a total of forty-two arrests nationwide in connection to a series of criminal activities including but not limited to unethical and irresponsible research, intentionally fraudulent claims made to U.S. government personnel, and the misleading of the American public. Until inspections have been conducted, we cannot verify that the vaults are secure in the event of nuclear war. The associates at Elmore and Dunn reccommend you review your family's emergency plans in light of this new information._

_"To maintain the integrity of the ongoing investigation, we will not be releasing many details at this time. This concludes our prepared statement, thank you."_


	8. Chapter 8

Nate pulls an touched bottle of whiskey from his trunk and slams it shut. As they walk back into Warren's house, Danse notes the label. Black and a reflective silver. He's seen it before only a handful of times in his life and he raises an eyebrow.

"Not every day you start a new year, brother," he grins, plucking a cigarette from his pack. He owes Danse a drink, the price for lost bets, but he hadn't expected him to splurge. They are hours away from January first and he supposes it's reason to celebrate.

Transparent glasses are filled halfway with the dark alcohol and Nate slides one across the counter to him. A celebratory clink and they're taking the first potent mouthfuls of the night.

They're both waiting for her. Nate straightens his tie while they talk about superficial things but their eyes flicker expectantly to the door at every knock. This time, Danse knows she'll come and he's been anxiously anticipating all day.

It takes half an hour before she finally arrives and he straightens his spine when he sees her.

He doesn't like going so long between doses. The shock of the magnetic pull always feels stronger than he remembers and tonight is no exception. She's still in her work clothes; Nate has confirmed she's been working overtime and then some with the Vault-Tec caseload. It's the subject of every conversation from idle grocery line chatter to bar gossip so it's no surprise that she's bombarded with questions only seconds through the door.

Marjorie walks with her towards Nate, hoping for answers, but Nora is tight-lipped; rightfully so. There are rumors of plea deals that she won't confirm or deny and Marjorie dismisses herself to get the door for those still arriving without any substantial new information.

She greets Nate with a kiss to his cheek and turns, somewhat hesitantly, toward Danse. She acknowledges him with his name and he nods.

This particular party is full of more than their usual nine. The room is stuffed with bodies and the constant hum of voices. It isn't long before someone else finds her and engrosses her in conversation and then she jumps from person to person, Nate by her side, for the better part of an hour. She looks tired but the wine in her hand helps her keep up the charade of pleasant sociability. She fills it twice as she makes her rounds and it amplifies her laughter so that it carries to his place across the room.

He's never more lonely than when he's in a room with Nora.

Because he's desperate to know her. Better, he adds, than the others in the room who are all superficial, interested more in what she's done than anything else. He looks for moments to steal her away or at least ask her for small pieces of herself. Something to hold at night when his bed is cold. Even when she and Nate settle beside him at a table, her attention is elsewhere and he doesn't see a chance to cut in.

But the opportunity presents itself when Nate is pulled away for shots. He doesn't even look back at Danse; he knows he's not the sort for drinking that way. He isn't twenty anymore and vodka makes his head spin. Nora is invited but she politely declines for the sake of her early morning commute.

And then, alone with him, she's strangely timid and he remembers why.

Their last meeting is seared into his mind, branded by painful awkwardness and the sting of her eyes asking him why. He could explain, tell her it was one and done, but he thinks it's better to move past it altogether.

"You're Jewish," he says.

She looks up, more than a little confused.

"What else?"

"Wha... uh, sorry?"

He leans in, gives away just how much he wants an answer. "What else don't I know about you?"

Her mouth tilts upwards and it makes him crazy how _breathtaking_ it is. When Nora is cared for, she's effervescent. She's easily the most vibrant thing he's ever seen and he knows for a fact that she lights up when he shows affection, guarded as it may be. And this _is_ affection, though he'll swear the rest of his life it's platonic at its core.

She responds in a foreign tongue, one he's never heard and didn't realize she was fluent in. He's less informed than he'd hoped. At his slack jaw, she smiles brighter, bigger, and it creases the corner of her eyes. "What do you want to know, then, Danse?"

_Everything. All of you_.

"What do you do with your spare time?"

She laughs. "None to spare."

"Nora."

"Fine. Every once in a while, I get around to playing piano again. But that's certainly a rare thing."

"I didn't know you played. I didn't see a piano."

She shakes her head and her eyes dim. "We don't have one. Well, anymore. I admit I... got a bit overzealous a few years back and sold it. I was convinced we'd need the room for a crib."

Her pain is his. He can't stand there and watch her swallow and blink back tears without his own heart shattering. His lover's instinct is to console her with a hand on her cheek but that isn't right.

All he knows to do is change the subject. "Any other hidden talents?"

She looks around the room and gathers herself. Stalling so her voice won't crack when she finally responds. Her eyes linger on the doorway to the kitchen and it sparks a smile. She claims that college developed in her the generally useless ability to distinguish not only the type of wine solely by taste but where the grapes were grown and he's being pulled all too willingly into a game.

When he expresses disbelief, she tilts her and raises her eyebrow. "Try me," she dares.

He follows her to the dozens of open wine bottles that clutter the kitchen counter. In the quiet of the room, the buzzing of fluorescent lights is audible, drowns out the muted conversations that drift through the walls. He leans back against the counter, examines his options then hands her a bottle, the label towards him as her fingers wrap around the neck. She takes a sip without breaking his gaze and holds it in her mouth, finally shutting her eyes to deliberate.

"Hmmm." She swallows. "Pinot Grigio."

"And?"

"And... California."

He takes the bottle back to double check and sure enough, she's correct.

"Impressive," he confesses, but he reaches for another bottle before he'll really believe her.

Same procedure. Label out, slender fingers coiling around the bottle and she takes a swig.

"Easy," she smiles, stumbling one step closer. "Riesling. Germany."

"I'm questioning your drinking habits, Nora."

Every bottle is another step closer, of her own volition or driven forward by her increasing inebriation, until she falls and grasps his shirt to catch herself, his hand flying to the small of her back. It fits, like a dream or a nightmare. Fits _so_ _well_that there's a very real shift in the way he thinks about them, tectonic in its scale, and it will make for another sleepless night. Her foot lands between his and they're close enough that it wouldn't shock him if she hears the blood rush to his cheeks.

"Damn. I need to take these off," she says to herself, leaning into him and stooping to rid herself of her heels.

She kicks them to the side of the kitchen. Barefoot, she's that much shorter than he is. Even though she keeps her hand on his chest and even though his is still at her back, she's increased the distance between their lips. He shouldn't have gauged that.

But he's too spellbound to look away so he reaches blindly for a third bottle and she smolders from over the glass as she drinks.

"Chardonnay." Her eyes drop to his lips and he feels the control slipping through his fingers. "France."

In his mind, he's throwing the bottle to the floor and tossing her onto the counter. They're urgent with their hands and mouths and she will _never_ be close enough. Not with her hands under his shirt, not with her tongue behind his teeth, not even with her legs wrapped around him.

He has never needed anyone so badly as he needs her.

But in the present, they're still. He can hear himself say _I_ _don't_ _think_ _we_ _should_ _be_ _here._

Simultaneously, pride and disappointment blossom and mingle and it's cloying in the back of his throat.

She looks at her palm, watches it fall to her thigh and she nods. If it's agreement or to shake thoughts from her mind, he can't be sure.

This is the worst part of all of it. How hard they work to keep away and how little payoff there is for their efforts. Every time, he has to see her recoil in rejection, as if he wants things this way. As if he'd push her away without so many barriers.

He leads Nora, drunk and wobbling, back into the dining room and she falls into the chair between his and where Nate is sat. Her husband wraps his arm around her and Danse knows he's had his share to drink when his lips seek hers and miss.

But the alcohol is only half of it. She'd squirmed away, turned her head a fraction of a degree to avoid the contact. It doesn't bother Nate, if he notices at all; he jumps back into his conversation seamlessly.

Danse isn't sure what to make of it. Discontent and frustration are written plainly on her face. He doesn't miss the side glance she casts at him before she quickly hides her face, folds her hands on the table and lays her head on them.

"You should date her."

He raises his eyebrows, can feel his cheeks heating up because dammit, he's _tired_ of explaining himself and Nora, of all people, should already know why that won't work. "I don't think we're very compatible."

"No, no, no. That isn't true." She shakes her head slowly, side to side in long sweeps because she's too intoxicated for precise movements. The heel of her hand props her cheek up after a few sloppy and uncoordinated attempts and she stares up at him. "Tell me you wouldn't date her if you didn't know me."

Words are stuck in his throat, cutting off air and leaving his mouth dry. He knows what he wants to say and then he knows the truth. He knows _she_ knows the truth. Their situation is unfortunate and he's loathe to bring another person in just to take up his time so he doesn't have so damn much of it. What he does with it now is sit and think and try _not_to think and he's not very good at that last part. But he doesn't think Camila can be the solution.

Nora disagrees without words. It's in the way she leans toward him, the hand that reaches for his forearm and squeezes and says _see?_. The piercing hold of her brown eyes against his that make him question his own reasoning. He can't quite understand why this, of all things, is what she wants him to do but he does know that she's right.

In a world without Nora, Camila is the next best thing.

But this is a world _with_Nora.

And inexplicably, she knows him. She predicts his protest before he can utter a sound.

"Not settling," she mumbles. "It's pragmatism."

"Pragmatism," he repeats and she nods, slumping back onto the table and closing her eyes.

She says more but it's muffled. When he asks her to repeat herself, she rolls so that her cheek is pressed against her forearm and he can see her mouth move when she speaks and guts him.

"Don't miss her, Danse, because you already missed me."

She's never hurt him so deeply. Logically, he knows she's just reacting to the sudden distance he's put between them, but he decides if that's what she wants so damn badly, then he'll comply.

In the early morning hours of January first, Danse shows up at Camila's door, stone-faced and cold. She answers in her robe and blushes and he brusquely asks if she'll see him that weekend. She responds with a quiet affirmative and he thanks her before he turns back sharply to his car.


	9. Chapter 9

Her closet is full of dresses, ball gowns and office wear alike, and her fingers slip between the hangers to push them aside one by one, seeking something elegant. Not too flashy but formal enough for the stuffy socialites of Sanctuary Hills. She chooses a black dress, off-the-shoulder with a knee length skirt, and decides she can relieve its plainness with pearls. When she's slipped it on and stepped up to the mirror, she rifles through her jewelry box.

"I like that one." Nate smiles without looking away from his reflection as he buttons his shirt. "Haven't seen it in a while."

She collects a pair of diamond studs in her hand and bites her lip playfully. "You like any dress so long as the skirt is over your head."

He smiles wider. He's no doubt remembering all of her dresses that his hands have slid into, that his mouth has ducked under, and there have been a lot. They have not outgrown each other yet and by the way his eyes are darkening now, they won't soon. "I do. But I really like this one."

He steps closer and there's no doubt what he wants. She's inclined to give it to him, feels the pulse of desire between her legs. Nate is handsome on the best of days but when he looks at her like this, ravenous and heated, he's fully irresistible.

"Don't you mess up my makeup, Nathaniel Davis," she whispers as he lifts her onto the countertop.

"Never, my dear."

His mouth roams her neck, plants barely-there kisses along her skin that turn her inside out while the hand on her knee creeps up her thigh. This is not half of what they'll do tonight but it will tide them over until the party has fizzled and he can fuck her properly.

There are always upwards of a dozen parties to attend at any given time because this neighborhood is the sort of pretentious middle-class housing development whose lifeblood is the illusion of importance. Nora hates it. This house had been Nate's idea for all of their would-be children but Nora is less and less sure they'll ever conceive and she takes it out on the house, this damned neighborhood of pretty plastic people that she will socialize with tonight.

At least she has this.

Tension and intimacy and then oh so sweet release.

Nate's fingers slide over her and inside of her, having mapped out her body long ago and he's a certifiable expert on turning her into a moaning mess. She drops her hand to his but it's not to guide him. He needs no assistance. She just wants to feel the flex of his fingers as they work her, play her like an instrument he is well-practiced at.

She wants him to draw it out and make them late, wants to not go to Susan Powell's at all. Snooty Susan at the end of the cul-de-sac. If they never show up, it might well be that their absence would go unnoticed. But Nate is breathing just as hard as she is and he unzips his pants to finish the both of them far too soon. She shoos his hand away from his fly and it's her own that wraps around his cock and makes him drop his jaw, makes him twist wickedly inside her in revenge.

She knows she's close when her languages blur together and Nate can only understand half of the praises she offers. And then, feeling her contract around him, he spills himself over her hand and they both take a moment to appreciate that lighter-than-air feeling and bask in the afterglow.

He stays the gentleman in everything, helps her down and kisses her temple before he cleans himself up and attends to the tie that has been draped loosely around his shoulders. There's no place like home, she thinks, but even as she does, she knows why it's not quite true.

She wants to cry. This had always been enough; always until it wasn't because she hadn't known anything was missing until Danse. She craves him in ways unexplainable. It isn't his character or the way he treats her so much as it's some undefinable spiritual phenomenon that leads her to believe in a Great Something Else. She still thinks of him: how it might be feel to have him dressing in her bathroom, watching him knot ties and fold collars and just belong in the same space as her.

There are no more holidays, no more excuses to see him and she has to know. "How's Danse been?"

Nate is oblivious to the whys behind her question. The boys had gone out the night before so it isn't random, not strange enough that he should see through the ruse.

"Good," he reaches for his shoes and slips them on. "Actually... well, it's too soon to say much. He's been out with that Camila girl a few times."

She fiddles with the strand of pearls she's placed around her neck and pretends the stabbing pain in her stomach isn't there. She doesn't care what he does or who or how often and she will lie to herself as much as she has to. "A few..."

"I know. I haven't seen him with anyone in a while."

He's listened to her, then. He's done what she's asked and what's best for the both of them. There's no reason to scowl at her reflection except that she knows Camila is everything she cannot be. Friend, lover, domestic goddess rolled into one. The whole package, and probably with a working womb to boot.

There's no competition. Nora should not compete even if there was.

Nate is willing to give her anything she needs. But some things, she thinks, cannot be achieved through time and effort. The difference between earning something and being given it is vast. The latter only happens once in a blue moon and that's precisely why it's so valuable, so frustratingly difficult to refuse.

But she does. And for all she knows, she may never see him again. He will fall in love with Camila and forget Nora and it will be that much easier to keep to herself.

But the thoughts are harder to quell. Everything reminds her of him, like some schoolgirl crush.

She hardly knows Snooty Susan or her husband, Mr. Powell, but she realizes as she listens to them talk that he is also military. Like Nate. Like Danse. Everyone and their mother is in the goddamn United States military and she digs her nails into her palm.

While Nate is engaged with someone he hasn't seen since basic, she excuses herself to a table in the corner of the room with more half-full wine bottles than she thinks she's ever seen and as she refills her glass past the mark of propriety, she leans against the counter and allows herself to be swept away by fatigue.

Too many people. There are too many people here and she doesn't like any of them and she's tired of the charade. She is drained by her work and again when she goes home to too many empty rooms that may never be filled. She hears her mother's voice telling her to pray and she has and she does and she's scared the answer is no.

She tilts her head up to save her makeup from the destruction of tears. It's a crime to fall apart in so public a space, one she's never committed yet. If she can wait, she knows Nate will let her fall apart on his chest tonight.

He does. He isn't blind sees to her struggling and the fake smile she props up with a few drinks and he has them home and reclining on the sofa by nine. Her arms are locked around him, refuse to let him up but he won't complain, he says because there's nowhere he'd rather be. She falls into a quiet calm with his fingers combing through her hair but it's disturbed by her curiosity, her wondering if Danse is doing the same for Camila. There's no room for thoughts like that and peaceful dreams so she buries it and tells herself not to rob that grave. She won't see him for months or longer if she can avoid Nate's gettogethers. For all she knows, he'll put a ring on Camila's finger before she will ever lay eyes on him again.

All is as it should be, she insists as she falls into unconsciousness. The world is right even as it slips from its axis.


	10. Chapter 10

By the time Danse is again locked in the sights of whiskey brown eyes, they're softer. All of the petty heat he'd seen goading him to cut her deeper has dissipated, burned away into vapor and left a humble understanding in its stead. She isn't the type to hold a grudge but he had expected to find some stubborn remnant of New Years in her expression; resentment, maybe, for further complicating things.

There are months and miles between almost-kisses and this new address. In the interim, he's come to terms with how Nora always pushes him away when he sets their limits. Nothing in this world gets under his skin so easily because he misses her and she leaves a hole in his chest when she goes. She's a frustrating, impossible woman. But he can't be angry when she ambushes him this way. It's still what he wants. _She's_ still what he wants and he's disappointed to learn that she's no easier to dismiss standing small in his doorway than she had been with her hand on his chest.

The way she looks at him is apologetic and eager, a mirror of what he feels on his own face, and it makes him fall apart all over again. If she's ever been so happy to see anyone, he'd be truly stunned. He's missed her as much or more. He can't ever quite conjure the exact way her hair falls on his own or the angle of her brows when she's thinking but he has tried.

He shouldn't have tried but he _missed_ _her_. Her absence is worse than her presence, he decides. Both burn him up but he only feels the flames in the former. They lick at his bones like kindling but _now_-

Now, he will have to redouble his efforts not to think about her so much when she leaves. And dammit, this isn't how he imagined seeing her again: half wondering if he's done the right thing, if he's in the right place, with the right person. But he can worry when she's gone. She's not a foot away from him now and it's oxygen to his starved lungs.

"Made you a pie," she gives him a crooked smile and thrusts a circular dish towards him. "Nate said I should bring it by. To congratulate you. On..." she tilts her head and she gestures to the building around her.

She won't say it. He won't either, then.

There's no hint of alarm, no sign that she hasn't known for some time about his new living arrangements. Not an ambush, at least, but they're both still unsure how to be around the other so they'll need to renegotiate.

He takes the pie and steps out of the way, gives her room to decide if she'll stay longer, stay _with_ _him_ and he hopes she does. He's a man of few words but if she'll let him, he'll show her how much he regrets the bitter way he left things. Maybe as much as she does, clear as day in the way she's attempting to make peace with his decisions.

She purses her lips, looking him over, and then steps past him slowly. Her eyes scan over the room and she runs her hand along the wall as she walks, stopping at every decoration, every book stuffed onto the oak shelf near the window. It holds him hostage, the burning need to know what she thinks and how she's feeling. Her fingers trace the spine of a novel and pluck it out to skim the pages like it will explain what he's doing with anyone else. Neither of them know beyond 'why not' but he can't ache for her forever. She replaces it gently, respectfully, and her hand travels over over figurines and crosses and photos of relatives neither of them know.

He isn't sure he likes seeing her among the strange combination of his things and Camila's. Although he'd wanted nothing more than for her to understand exactly how sharp the ring on her left hand is and all the ways it slices him open, he hates what it does to her. She keeps her head low, her limbs as close to her torso as she can and pretends its the temperature because this room, this apartment, what it represents is glacial. She wants to know and she doesn't, a violent clash he's all too familiar with.

He's quiet as she evaluates, gives her space and time.

She looks over her shoulder at him approvingly but there's a melancholy edge he doesn't miss. "It's beautiful."

He drifts nearer to her to test the waters and she stays rooted in place. "I can't say I had much to do with it."

"Wouldn't believe you if you did," she smirks and turns back to admiring the walls.

She crosses her arms over her chest and steps into the kitchen. The staccato click of her heels over the tile is harsh in the silence. He wonders if he shouldn't turn on the radio just to disturb the stillness and ease his nerves. She pauses in front of the island and reaches for the vase of flowers in the center. A bouquet of roses he'd gotten only days prior for Camila's 25th. He burns red down to his neck but she's too kind to react.

"Women are like that," she muses. "They turn everything they touch into something beautiful."

She looks up at him like she's trying, _really_ _trying_, to be happy for him. The conflict a layer deeper isn't overpowering until she looks back down at the flowers and gently cups one in her hand. When she doesn't move, he steps closer until there's a mere foot of electric space between them.

"Danse, I..." her thumb runs over one petal and then she drops her hand limply to the counter. "I will always care about you. No matter what."

He sets the pie aside to free his hands though he doesn't know what to do with them.

"You know that I'm trying. And I will always try," she continues.

"I know," he says softly, sliding his hand as close to hers on the counter as he dares.

"So," she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear, "do you love her?"

He takes his sweet time to mull over the answer and she finally drags her eyes up, full and curious pupils trained on his.

He wants to tell her that he'd thought about her that first awkward date. That he'd thought about her during first and second and third kisses because Camila tastes sweet and he'd wondered what she tastes like. That he had and still does think about her when the notes of a piano float from the speakers of their radio and when Vault-Tec dominates the news cycle. And he wants her to know that he'd lost his entire damn appetite for the first week in Camila's apartment and that no matter what he does, every time Nate says her name is charged, high voltage, travels through every nerve and thoroughly flusters him.

Every day for four months, he's thought of this woman. Nothing he feels for Camila comes close, even now. That isn't what she asked but it's what she wants to know.

So, he tells her, "Differently."

But there's a heavy implication in that response, one he doesn't catch until his cards are already on the table.

_Different_ _than_ _I_ _love_ _you_.

Wildly out of place but still absolutely true.

Her eyes are large and confused. They flick between his rapidly and she can't help the way her lips pull up at the corners where a blush is collecting.

She accepts his answer after a moment, simply nods and pulls him with her down the hall where she takes in the procession of photographs against the wallpaper. One picture in particular catches her eye-"you look very handsome here"-and it isn't long before she finds the bedroom. She sits on the foot of the bed and sighs, stretching back fully and staring up at the ceiling.

Danse lingers in the doorway, watches her nervously. Sitting beside her would be harmless and eventually, he does.

"I like it," she says. "Your place, I mean."

He flinches when he feels her fingers bump against his hand before they intertwine with his.

God, he missed her.

"Passed your inspection, did I?"

She laughs. "At ease, soldier. We're off base."

Nothing more is said for beautiful, silent minutes. This-still and content next to Nora-is the most at home he's ever felt. They aren't fanning the flames or running away. It's natural and peaceful and so right.

Until, beside him, he feels her growing restless.

"Danse?"

"Nora?"

"You know that no matter how much changes, you always have me."

The words are tender, make him wonder what they're trying to soothe. He furrows his brow in inquiry.

She opens her mouth to speak but her words fail her and she shakes her head, smiling. She has never looked this way in all the time he's known her and the uncertainty claws at him. To the untrained eye, it's no different than she always appears-blithe and cheery-but Danse has learned the difference between the counterfeit and the real thing. This is genuine. Enough that it won't fit into the words she tries to stretch around it.

And then, she tells him.

"I'm pregnant," she blurts from a smile so large that it looks positively painful.

He doesn't know what to feel, let alone what to say. It had seemed very unlikely that her body was capable of holding life and now that it is, he should be unconditionally delighted. But he only looks shocked, eyes wide and eyebrows raised as high as they'll go.

Dumbfounded, he just manages, "Really?"

She moves her hands beneath her shirt to cradle the barely-there curve of her stomach and her eyes follow, captivated. "Baby Davis," she whispers to herself. "Seven weeks."

She reaches for his hand and moves it over her stomach and he stares dumbly at the splay of his fingers over her skin. This, he thinks, is a privilege for fathers and he isn't the one who helped her create this child. It's a romantic idea; to love someone so much that it takes physical form.

He's suddenly and irrationally jealous.

He would jerk his hand away out of self-preservation if she didn't trap it under hers.

"When are you due?" he asks with all the volume he can muster.

"December."

Soon. Very soon.

This is the change she meant. Not Camila, not new apartments, not roses.

The nerves in his hand are prickling against her stomach as he runs his fingers over the firmness there. He has to know that it's true. That buried inside of her is life. It's impossible to wrap his mind around and brown eyes drift over his face, watch as he works it all out.

Of course he's happy for her. It's all she's ever wanted and it will redeem years of patient, aching, empty arms. He wants as many children for her as she wants herself. But he's lying if he claims that that's all he feels because he has stupidly clung to the hope that he has some place in her future.

This can only cement that he doesn't. That no, he's imagined any sense of fate about the two of them and it drives him to silly dreams founded in fiction.

Nate has always been the one with whom babies and houses are shared.

Camila enters the apartment noisily and he should move but he can't. Not until Nora sits up and tucks her shirt back into her pants and he composes himself so there's no more evidence of how deeply he loves this woman. How it will devastate him to watch her raise a child with someone else.

But it won't really. At least, not any more than it ever has.

If he'd learned anything in those Nora-less months, it's how irrevocable her claim on him is. Only nuclear war will ever keep him from her for so long again. He will watch all of this unfold, die that slow death, because the only alternative is worse.

Nora is too excited not to spill her secret to Camila immediately and they gush, make dinner plans and dream up nursery ideas at a processing speed Danse can't manage.

It doesn't matter.

He has his hands full-his _head_ full-trying to understand the sudden emptiness in his gut.

It can't be fatherhood.


End file.
